


Impressive

by malcs



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 04:18:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malcs/pseuds/malcs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Stig finds James impressive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impressive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [diemarysues](https://archiveofourown.org/users/diemarysues/gifts), [suchanadorer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchanadorer/gifts).



The Stig sat on his chair in the Portacabin, “arms” “folded” across his “chest.” He was quite busy, silently watching Jeremy fling the newest Nissan around the track, enthusiastically if not well. The window kept fogging up.

“Hello,” came a deep voice from beside him. The Stig didn’t look round, but he felt a slight tingle start up in his right leg. Or, “leg.” Whatever - you know what I mean.

The Stig nodded, visor still tracking Jeremy’s progress.

James cleared his throat. “Mind if I sit?”

The Stig nudged the other chair out for him.

“Right, thanks,” James said. The Stig could see him, barely. He turned his head just slightly to get a better look. James was wearing his Jumper of Many Colours and the pair of jeans that a rabbit had chewed through - the Stig watched the presenters’ alternative programs with a fanatical fervor - and he had a pair of glasses perched on the end of his nose. The crossword was spread out in front of him, and he was tapping a pen against his chin.

The Stig turned to face him just a little bit more.

James, unaware as always, set about scribbling in letters. “Epee,” he murmured, considering. “Soprano.”

The Stig’s gloved fingers scrabbled silently against the chipped tabletop.

There was a very loud screech and the massive sound of a revving twin-turbo V6 being flung backwards into a tyre wall. James glanced out the window and rolled his eyes. “What a massive idiot,” he said, before going back to the paper.

The Stig turned completely from the window to stare at James, who continued on muttering to himself. ”Fishing gear…? Mm, ‘reel.’”

There was a lot of shouting going on outside. The Stig didn’t catch a word of it. He was too busy trying to control the fine tremor that had started up in his limbs.

“One more, Stiggy,” James said, flashing the Stig what was, by his own admission, a very camp grin. Which very quickly slid off his face when he finally realized that all of the Stig’s not inconsiderable attention was focused on him. The Stig was vibrating slightly; the air was humming with it.

“Stig?” he said, unsure.

The Stig’s trembling increased. He reached out a white glove and tapped the remaining empty square, visor locked on James’ face.

James pushed his glasses up his nose - the Stig’s vibrations revved briefly before settling back into a steady hum - and turned back to the paper, swallowing heavily. He badly needed a cup of tea.

After a weighty pause, he scribbled in a hasty ‘e’ (Moran of ‘Happy Days’ - Erin), and had just enough time to push back slightly from the table before the Stig was on him. The pen and his glasses went flying as the Stig’s hum rose to a throaty growl, his hands hot and hard through the gloves.

James managed a rather surprised “Stig!” and then the lights went out. All of them. Including the weak grey sunlight filtering in from the window.

-

Quite a lot of time later, James groggily raised his head from the floor. He peered through gritty eyelids at the Stig, who was lying spread-eagle beside him, a few suspicious stains on his now-rather-wrinkled suit.

“What was that all about?” James asked, voice steadier than he felt. His legs were still trembling slightly. “I mean, I know I’m quite thick, but…”

The Stig was moving, barely. His hand weakly grasped the forgotten pen and feebly wrote something on the also-suspiciously-stained floor. James leaned over to read it and crashed head-first into the Stig’s chest as his limp arm gave out on him.

“Mmphrf,” he said. The Stig purred.

Unwilling to risk smashing his face into the floor, James turned his head and, ear pressed to the Stig’s chest, read what he’d wrote.

“'Crossword?'” he asked querulously. “You must be joking.”

The Stig’s hand, complete with pen, twitched back into view and wrote, ‘Impressive.’

“Really,” James said. He felt the Stig nod. ”Oh.”

Outside, the Nissan had been taken apart, looked over, repaired, and sent back out on the track, a shouty, and therefore happy, Clarkson behind the wheel. Every so often the shriek of its glorious engine whipped by, but the Stig wasn’t interested. He had something much more impressive snoring wetly on his chest. The rest could wait.


End file.
